


305 - Intermission

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mini Fic, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-07 22:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21225185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Van makes music. You write poetry.





	305 - Intermission

**Author's Note:**

> The miniest of all minis. But, it's something.

"Love, show us one of ya poems?" 

"Fuckin' excuse you?" you quickly replied, looking over Van. 

He was sitting at the small, round kitchen table. The way he was perched on the chair looked dangerous; if he was a teenager in a classroom, the teacher would have scolded him over it by now. In his lap was his acoustic guitar, the scratched and dented one that never met the 'guitar tech' hands of Larry and had never seen the inside of a proper recording studio. Van was smiling like he'd only asked for a cuppa or something. But that wasn't what he had requested. The audacity of the man. 

"A poem," he repeated with a casual shrug. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I _heard_ what you said. Just think it's funny, ya know?" 

Van cocked his head, tucked some hair behind his ear, and deliberately raised an eyebrow. "What's funny?" 

"What's funny?! You! Meant to be a lyrical genius and all that, but you just go around stealin' lines from everyone," 

"What?!" Van shrieked, putting his guitar on the table at the same time. You could tell he was about to launch into one of his dramatic little speeches; he'd put his hands on the table, palms flat against it, bracing himself. "I-"

"Nope," you cut him off. He went to start again, so again - "Nope." 

Van laughed, stood up and walked to the fridge. His bare feet stuck a little to the lino flooring as he moved across the small space. You'd said you'd mop the day before but you didn't, and Van didn't care much. Disappearing behind the door for a few moments, he emerged holding two beers. 

"What about-"

"This will be good," you muttered loud enough for him to hear. 

"What about we write a duet?" 

Van brought the beers over to the couch you were laying on, writing in your journal. He took the lid off with his teeth and handed it over. 

"Don't do that! What was the point in fixing ya teeth if you're gonna treat them like that? And no. Get your own poetry." 

Van huffed, plonked himself down next to you, pushing your legs aside to make room. You softly kicked at him until he let you lay them across his lap. 

"But I want _your_ poetry," 

"Gonna credit me when it gets on the next record? Am I gonna get royalties and all that?" you asked, not glancing up over the journal. It bugged him to not get your undivided attention, and you liked the way he squirmed. 

"You pretty much already get all my royalties! Buyin' you stuff all the time!"

Sighing, you thought about it for a second. Or two. Finally, you snapped the book shut and looked up at him. "Got a melody?" 

Van's face lit up. Bouncing, he retrieved his guitar and was back on the couch in a blink. 

"Got a good one. Just don't know what to do with it," he introduced, then played a soft little thing that you loved way more than you wanted to. Even worse, you had a small, good thing too, and you knew it would go perfectly with Van's music. 

He could read your expression. "Ha!" he mocked. "You like it!"

"Whatever. Play it again," you ordered, opening your journal to the right page. 

According to you, you were not a singer. There weren't a lot of people that could really agree or disagree with that; like most non-vocalists, you always changed your voice just a little when singing along to the radio with friends, or even when doing drunk karaoke. But like he was to many things, Van was the exception. More times than you could count, you'd sung to him and he'd fallen to his knees just to hear another bar of it. 

Nodding your head to his melody, you sang a poem to Van's music. 

"Piece things back up for me,   
It's hysterical to think that it's almost a year  
To the day  
Since we drank out back 'till the morning  
Delivered that fact that we all just sat  
Counting days   
We laughed there for hours  
And I must say  
It resonates."

Van stopped playing. "That's good. It goes together," he reviewed. 

"_We_ go together," you replied, too soon to have the good sense to stop that level of absolute fluffy cheese from slipping out. 

Naturally, Van loved it, leaning across his guitar to pull you into a gentle kiss. "I'll put ya on the third album," he said, not moving far away from your lips. His breath was warm and familiar. 

"Can't wait for them cheques to come rolling in."


End file.
